


Doing one’s best does not always answer

by STILL_not_ginger



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, adorable idiots, have some insinuations of a non-sexual nature, just love these two together and in such denial that we won't see them in the TARDIS again, not really sure what else to call this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 18:04:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/STILL_not_ginger/pseuds/STILL_not_ginger
Summary: Their relationship was always markedly indefinable. “Companion” was interminably far too shallow a word for what they were to each other. On the other hand, "boyfriend" was never quite entirely applicable to him, or at least, that is what he would argue.





	Doing one’s best does not always answer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, Lovelies! I hope you enjoy this little short and don't consider it too out of character. I wanted to create a relaxed, cozy atmosphere for our adorkable idiots. What better way to do so than with tartan blankets, literature, and tea?

 It was nights like these that the Doctor always liked the best. The TARDIS hummed gently in the background as he sat with one ankle crossed over his opposing knee in his wingback chair. He favored the upper level of the console room over any permanent dwelling place these days. There had been so many long nights on Trenzalore, the majority of which were spent sleeplessly. Old habits die hard, or so they say, and after 9 centuries of intentional insomnia he found this one peculiarly immortalized within him. The very notion of a room used solely for being unconscious in, was never really one that appealed to him, much less now, and he viewed the console room as a compromise of sorts. Not quite so committal as a bedroom, not so reclusive as the library, and yet no shortage of reading material.

 A cup of herbal tea sat, nearly untouched, on the worn claw foot table near the arm of his red leather chair. A ring was nibbling its way, slowly but surely, through the chipped varnish. To his right a chair of similar origins, for who would have a room specifically for storing chairs but the Doctor, was slightly inclined towards his own. In it sat Clara with her legs curled up under her and a plaid throw blanket tucked snuggly over her lap. Her marking lay, largely unfinished, in a neat stack on the armrest beside her. Every so often he would hear a page turn or a pen scratching out double negatives and improperly used verb tenses. A light sigh would accompany her reading through a particularly badly-worded essay.

 The lights on the console seemed to dim on evenings such as this. They blinked to a lazy tune like fairy lights wrapped around trees in a historic part of town. The time rotors quieted down to a soft, insistent chittering, forsaking their usual "vworp vworp" groaning. Time itself seemed to languorously say, “Oh, not today. I’ll do it later.” A wibbly wobbley ball of yarn to be stowed safely away from prying claws and woven, some other day, into the fabric of the universe. Well, procrastination never got you anywhere but the dark alleyway of regret, the Doctor mused internally. He half-heartedly turned another page in the weathered edition of Jane Eyre and his readers slipped a little farther in their decent down the bridge of his nose. He’d read this Earth classic no doubt 100 times before, but surely once more couldn’t hurt.

 Bertha Mason was merely a clever metaphor for the hefty weight of immortality that daily graced the Doctor’s shoulders, to his mind. Locked tidily away to keep up appearances but always there nonetheless. A dark secret that made every effort to make itself known and to burn and blacken what little happiness crept up in its stead. Edward was a fool to ever consider himself worthy of being loved. His situation would only serve to complicate that of anyone who dared to become involved with him. Why tempt himself with something that could never happen? It would only serve to break his hearts…heart, he corrected, in the end. That is why it’s called fiction, he remembered. Because, it would never end that way in reality. Life was long, except for when it wasn’t.

He chanced a glance in Clara’s direction only to find her already admiring him with curious eyes.

“Hey. Where were you just now?”

“Nowhere. Just thinking.” About you, he mentally added.

“Jane Eyre again, I see. That seems to be a favorite of yours. I love that book. Which part are you at this time?”

 The Doctor cleared his throat to prepare his voice for reading aloud. She hadn’t expected that from him. But then again ever since Christmas it felt like many things were beginning to change. She rested her cheek against her palm, propped it up on the armrest nearest to the Doctor, and waited patiently for him to begin.

 Shifting slightly in his chair he began to read Jane’s dialogue, _“I laughed at him as he said this. “I am not an angel,” I asserted; “and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me — for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.”_

_“What do you anticipate of me?”_

 With that the Doctor sighed and shyly fixed his gaze on Clara. The question hung in the air, open-ended, rhetorical, really. Because, what did she really anticipate from him, at the end of the day? He’d made no promises, of that he was sure. He’d been meticulously careful in that regard, jaded as he was from years of those he loved never staying. Was she discomfited by his seeming lack of a desire to label what they were to each other? If she was, she'd made no mention of it. It was Clara who first broke the silence.

“I’ve always liked that chapter best. Jane’s fiery, independent spirit is so well captured. It’s what made me fall in love with the character.” 

“Me too.” He said before leaning back in the chair and taking a sip of his neglected tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought of it.  
> If you hated it, liked it, or loved it then tell me why. I love hearing from you all!


End file.
